I am not raising the child I thought I would. Instead I am getting a mini-me. I prayed daily that nature would beat out nurture. Instead, nurture is kicking nature in the heiney and spitting right into its hair.
It all started when my daughter was an infant. I had visualized an early childhood for her free of plastics and character driven stimulus. My princess would be raised with simple wooden toys and organic cottons. With my nose in the air, I went to the Elitist Mommy Child store. I opened the door and bang, I was underwhelmed. It was just so...beige. I bought a little beige thinking I could cheat a little by washing it with my colors. I bought the wood blocks because they were on sale.
I sat in my beige baby room looking at my beige-ly attire tot. Then I broke down and took her shopping at Baby Gap and Babies R Us.
Somehow, by Kindergarten, I thought she'd be sketching studies from museum paintings and grooving to the sounds of Bossa Nova. If she was ever exposed to either concept, it wasn't by me. My nurturing came with Broadway show tunes and Disney art. Unsurprisingly, she likes Broadway show tunes and Disney, even one upping me with her favorite song: Witch Doctor from Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Never miss a local story.
Who is to blame for introducing her to vintage Alvin? No-one but me.
Ballet no. Gangam style yes.
Opera no. Katy Perry yes.
Classical no. Cheese yes.
Babar no. Barbie yes.
The Vogue magazines are mint and the Justice catalog is dog-eared. I swear she taught herself how to draw perfect five pointed stars in order to mark up the photos.
Children are born pure, like new pack of Play Dough colors. If I don't do something soon I'm going to have a lots of brown-purple.